Tradition
by Zayz
Summary: T/Z friendship - romantic if you squint. In which Ziva catches a little cold and Tony introduces her to the long-standing American tradition of bringing sick people soup...and the DiNozzo tradition of bringing a movie along too. R&R?


A/N: I haven't written for Tony and Ziva for a while, and the show has left me feeling all depressed with them lately since nothing's happening…plus, I'm sick. Like, achy-throat, ear-popping, hacking-snot-into-a-mountain-of-tissues sick. So I figured the time was ripe for this brief, cute little thing.

Takes place…well, around real episode time, I guess, so early Season 9, after Tony comes back from that mission. It's nothing monumental, just meant to momentarily divert you and make you smile. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Tradition  
By: Zayz**

* * *

The elevator doors open with their usual gentle _ding_, but the first noise Tony registers in that moment is that of Ziva sneezing.

He looks up instinctively to see his partner ambling into the office, face half-hidden behind the crook of her elbow, sneezing into her sleeve. It's a slightly disgusting, yet oddly charming little explosion of sound; she sneezes twice and then warily rubs her nose with a tissue, sighing. Tony smirks as she takes a seat at her desk.

"Good morning, Zee-vah," he says. "Doing okay over there?"

"Good morning, Tony – and yes, I'm fine." She sneezes again, this time a little louder.

"Sounds like you've got a cold," he notes.

"Yes, I do, but it is not a big deal, it will go away soon."

Ziva takes a tissue from the box on her desk and blows her nose hard. A noise like a foghorn shatters the air and actually makes Tony jump. She uses the tissue to wipe up her nose – which, even from his desk, looks red and raw and tender – and then goes right back to her computer, presumably checking her email.

He watches her with interest: Ziva is almost never sick, at least not in front of him. It's probably some kind of magical ninja immunity thing she has. So it's a rare novelty, seeing her with the same red nose and watery eyes and snot the rest of the human race deals with in October.

He's still watching her in idle fascination when the elevator _dings_ again, this time revealing McGee, who is bundled up in his coat and scarf, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He, too, looks over at Ziva in surprise.

"Morning, Ziva," he says. "Feeling a little sick?"

"Good morning, McGee – and I'm fine. Really."

Ziva smiles pleasantly at him, before promptly disappearing behind another tissue with another noise like a foghorn.

Both McGee and Tony jump – just as Gibbs saunters by and barks, "Grab your gear; we've got a dead petty officer in Norfolk."

* * *

As the team processes the crime scene, Ziva hovers with the camera, clicking away as Ducky examines the corpse and McGee points out evidence. However, in between clicks, she continues to blow her nose, wrinkling it with irritation as her ears keep popping, gingerly dabbing at her steadily reddening nostrils as she clears her throat. She looks so disgruntled that Ducky, looking up to tell her something, laughs.

"Got a bit of a cold, Ziva?" he asks, peering good-naturedly at the soggy tissue in her hand.

"Yes, Ducky," she says, eyeing the tissue as well, but with distaste.

"Have you taken any any medication?" he asks. "You know, in the times of the ancient Egyptians, Chinese and Indians of Central America, molds were often used as treatments for disease? Indeed, much of the progress with functioning antibiotics occurred as recently as the early twentieth century, with—"

"Got a time of death yet, Duck?" Gibbs appears on the scene, his sharp eyes expectant, and Ducky hastens his explanation to report the liver probe findings. Ziva sneezes halfway through and wins a mild glare from Gibbs, which is her cue to take her leave and see if Tony has found anything yet.

* * *

On the way back in the van, Ziva has managed to go through her own water bottle, as well as Tony's and McGee's, in an attempt to assuage her scratchy throat. She insists the temperature in the van is too cold, and demands Tony heat it up, though he and McGee are already sweating and trying to bring the temperature down.

"Are you sure you're okay, Ziva?" McGee eyes her up and down, brow furrowed with concern. "You're a little pale. Did you take any antibiotics?"

"I'm fine, McGee," she says, not unkindly but quite firmly. "Or, at least, I would be, if Tony would put the heating on already."

"Ziva, it's already seventy-five degrees in here; the temperature is fine," Tony informs her. "It's your own wacked-up thermometer you need to be concerned with."

"You may have a fever," says McGee. "It may be better if you just take a sick day—"

"I'm _fine_." Ziva glares at them both, then leans over, quick as lightning, to turn the dial to seventy-six degrees.

Tony reaches out to turn it back, but she slaps his hand in a way that tells him he would do better to just sweat out the next few minutes.

* * *

As Palmer unloads the body bag to take down to Autopsy, Tony and McGee successfully convince Ziva to have Ducky check her temperature. She attempts to resist, but McGee warns that if Abby is brought into this, it may get tricky; Abby would definitely want her to check her temperature and would have no problem forcing her to do it. Ziva would be better off just going voluntarily.

So she does – though not altogether willingly.

Ducky promptly pulls out the old-fashioned thermometer from his desk and tucks it neatly under Ziva's tongue, ordering her to stay still for a few seconds while it gets a reading. Tony, grinning, suggests that the thermometer would go better in a large muscle – say, in the back – but one murderous look from Ziva is enough to silence him, though his grin stays in place.

After about forty-five seconds, Ducky takes the thermometer out of her mouth and clicks his tongue.

"A hundred and one, Miss David," he says. "You should be at home in bed. Go on home; one of us will tell Gibbs for you."

"I feel fine, Ducky," says Ziva, though she folds her arms to snuggle deeper into her jacket. "Really. It's just a cold."

"But with a fever, I must insist you go home," Ducky argues gently. "Go on, my dear. We'll see you tomorrow."

She looks like she wants to press her point further, but Ducky simply puts a hand to her shoulder, pats her twice, and then turns around to tend to the body Palmer has brought in.

"See you later, Ziva." McGee smiles, somewhat uncertain. "Feel better."

"Bye, Ziva." Tony's smile is affectionate.

She sighs, says good-bye, and resignedly heads out to her car.

* * *

The afternoon passes slowly. Deprived of her usual case-cracking pursuits, Ziva finds herself mildly lost, with all this spare time in the middle of the work week. In any case, she stops at the drugstore to buy cold medication – both Tony and Ducky had texted twice to remind her to take antibiotics, knowing her well enough to guess she would abstain from them, thinking she didn't need them. Then she arrives at her apartment, changes into night clothes, makes some tea and falls asleep on her couch.

Some time in the evening, as she is watching an old movie while curled up in a blanket, her doorbell rings. She puts on flip flops and pads to the door, wondering vaguely who could be calling on her at this time.

Of course, the moment she opens the door, she is more surprised that her cold has apparently slowed down her usual cognitive function than she is at the fact that it is Tony standing on her doorstep, holding a plastic bag.

"Hello, Zee-vah," he says, smiling brightly at her.

"Hello, Tony." She eyes the bag warily. "What is that?"

"I brought soup and a movie," he says proudly.

"What kind of soup?"

"Well, I brought two. Tomato, and chicken noodle. Wasn't sure which one you'd go for. Personally, I'm a chicken-noodle guy, but I could see you as a tomato kind of person."

"You're right. I like tomato."

She steps aside and lets him into the apartment; he bustles right in and gets to work, warming up the soup in the microwave.

"I guess I'll have the chicken-noodle then," he says, holding it up so she can see it.

"Why did you bring soup?" she asks as she settles back into her blanket on the couch, peering at his progress in the kitchen.

"Because that's what you _do_," he says, as though it's obvious. "If someone is sick, you bring them soup. It's an American tradition. I am astonished it was not covered on your citizenship test."

She rolls her eyes, but he can tell she's touched.

"What about the movie?" she asks.

"Well…that's more of a DiNozzo tradition," Tony admits as the microwave beeps. "I brought _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_; it's my favorite sick-day movie. Plus, since it's a classic, I presume you haven't seen it – thus, today you will gain cultural knowledge as well as enjoyment."

The tomato soup is warmed up now; the chicken-noodle needs two minutes. Tony goes through the drawers until he finds a spoon, which he sticks into the plastic container. He then finds the cups and refills her tea for her. She watches, her expression indecipherable, looking all soft and vulnerable somehow, with her glowing red nose and the tissues in a heap beside her and her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

The microwave beeps again; the chicken-noodle soup is done too. He gets himself a spoon and precariously balances the tea and the two containers of soup in his hands. She takes the tea and the soup from him when he gets close and sets them on the table next to her. He goes back for the movie and his own soup, and proceeds to put the disc in without being asked. Her eyes follow his progress.

"What about the part where you intrude on my evening and decide to watch the movie with me without asking first?" she inquires.

Tony whips around, cheeks suddenly red with embarrassment – but when he catches Ziva's eye, he can tell she's joking. She grins, pats the couch next to her – the side without the tissues on it. He grins too, a little bashful this time, and puts the TV on, sits down next to her.

"I figure it's more fun with company, that's all," he says lightly.

Her smile is warm, genuine. "Thank you."

"No problem – like I said, American tradition," he says as he presses play.

* * *

As the plot of the movie unfolds, Ziva can see why this is Tony's favorite sick-day movie. He is certainly engrossed in it – still, even though she would be willing to bet that he has seen it several times before. But she lets herself get lost in it, enjoying it too, even though she spends much of it blowing her nose.

It strikes her, somewhere in the middle of the movie, that it has been quite a while since she and Tony had watched a movie together. The last she can remember, it was on a Friday night two years ago at work – the black-and-white pirate movie they watched late into the night over soda and popcorn. She's not sure why they never did that again, but it's nice that they're doing it now – even if it is only because she's sick. It's nice that he cares. It's nice that they are here, together, the two of them alone, with nothing else to distract or occupy them.

These past few months have been strained, awkward. She had her thing with Ray, he had his thing with EJ, both those relationships intersected unpleasantly at work and then he had to leave, go on that mole-hunt from the Secretary by himself, act all secretive and distant like they had hoped they would never have to act again.

It's been hard for them lately – harder than it should be. They haven't had time to themselves like this in a long time. Just sitting around like this, no pressure, no weirdness, just the kind of easy, familiar companionship they used to have in the old days. His weight is warm and solid next to hers; she's in-tune with him without really thinking about it, listening to him breathe and sharing this light, friendly evening with him. Despite their sometimes-tense work relationship, they have always been pretty good friends after all.

The movie finishes eventually and the credits roll. It's about ten thirty now. He stretches out his arms over his head and she yawns and makes him yawn too. Their soup containers and her cup of tea are all empty, spread around them. Wordlessly, she gets up, turns the TV off, and picks up their things – and her used tissues – and disposes of them in the kitchen. Tony remains on the couch for a minute or two longer, his eyes faraway.

Ziva returns and then he stands, smiling at her all lazy and relaxed, smelling like cologne and chicken-noodle soup and something sweet, sharp, uniquely his.

"Hope you feel better," he says.

"All right." She smiles too, though there's a little more tension in the set of her mouth. "Thank you, Tony. For the soup. And the company."

"Any time." He says it casually, but she can tell that he means it.

For the first time tonight, his manner becomes a little awkward as he politely steps out of her living room and heads to the door. It's as though he's showing himself out. She opens the door for him but lingers a little, her eyes on him. Something they can't – and don't want to – explain passes between them like a brief gust of wind.

"Good night," he says, before either of them can ruin the moment by being too serious.

"Good night," she repeats, and gently pushes the door, letting it close on its own.

* * *

By the next morning, Ziva is thankfully back to her regular health and temperature. Her nose remains a little stuffy, but for the most part, she's fine and happy to return to work.

She arrives in the office with a much sunnier look on her face than yesterday – only to find Tony collapsed on his desk, asleep, his snores muffled and shallow. She looks at him in amazement.

"Tony?"

He wakes with a jolt and sits up, bleary-eyed and disoriented. It takes him a moment to focus his gaze on Ziva. His nose is aggressively red around the nostrils.

"Thanks a lot, Ziva," he grumbles. "I got your cold."

In spite of herself, she chuckles.

"You should probably take a sick day, Tony," she says.

"I think I'll have to." He takes a tissue from the box at his desk and blows his nose. It is a thunderous, forlorn sort of sound.

"Do you need me to bring you soup tonight?"

He sneezes into his sleeve and looks back at her with Bassett-hound eyes.

"Well, it _is _your fault I got sick…"

Her smile is sweet, affectionate. "Fine. I will stop by tonight, provided Gibbs lets me leave before midnight. Now, go home. Get some rest."

Gratefully, he stands up and grabs his things. He coughs once, then heads towards the elevator.

"Bye, Ziva."

"See you later, Tony."

She's still watching him as he stands around waiting for the elevator, that same soft, affectionate smile tugging gently at the corner of her mouth as he disappears into the elevator.

* * *

A/N: So yeah, it was adorable and silly and kind of pointless…but I hope you liked it and I hope that you'll review on your way out.

Happy fall cold season! Please stock up on your favorite cold medication, drink lots of soup and stay healthy!


End file.
